What does it feel like?

What does it feel like when your insides turn and toil, twist and tumble? Through the world’s pain, and your own, there really isn’t any difference between the two. I wander the roads of my mind like a lost tourist, not able to grasp what should be home. Struggle, they say, makes us stronger, and pain makes us more resilient. But after having tasted the triumph of surety and completeness, I am not sure — in fact, I know that I don’t — want to hear the sounds of defeat or taste the bitterness of the war inside my mind.

What does it feel like when your gut wavers and wanders, without the champion of the soft and gentle cushion of what you thought were facts? No one loves or revels in the stuff that anxiety is made of, but do we ever really rid of it? Do we ever really free it from our hungry grasps when we are most weak? I would love to hold onto a piece of unwavering belief. I thought I had that, but now I am not so sure.

What does it feel like when you weep when the world weeps? When the flesh on your skin begins to dance with goosebumps and pain every time you see someone else in pain? There has been a lot of loss lately. I don’t know how to make sense of this. I see it everywhere I turn. I see mothers losing babies. I see sisters losing brothers. I see sons losing mothers. I see wives losing husbands. Sometimes the deaths come slow like grinding nails against sandpaper. Sometimes they come quick and fleeting, like a firm and harsh slap against the face when you’re looking the other way. But in the end, the result is the same: you lose, you grieve, you maybe accept for just a brief blissful moment in your life, and then you grieve again as if you’re losing all over again.

What does it feel like?

Hello this world of ours

It is a Friday evening, and the kids are in bed. There is a stream of tiny little thoughts invading my mind. It is time I start writing again, though it feels like it has been so long now that I don’t remember how the words used to flow so easily through me and onto the screen.

The best time to write for me has been in the car while driving. That is when my thoughts start being dissected and start transforming into images of words inside my head. Of course, that is the worst time for me to write, since I’m, y’know, driving and all. It has been years since I’ve felt at ease with the pen — or rather, the keyboard. It has been years since the images in my mind turned into images on the screen, curved with letters and formed into words that color others’ eyes. I wonder if this gift that used to come so prevalent can make its way home again.

Home. Home has always been where the words are. Before I was a therapist, I was a writer. Before I was a mother, I was writer. Before I was a photographer, I was a writer. I met my husband through words. And now, for years it seems, I have abandoned home.

Let’s come home together, these thoughts of mine. It is time again that I start rebuilding my legacy through words.